Poet Laureate John Steffler courtesy Concordia Journal
John Steffler is the third Parliamentary Poet Laureate in Canada (2006-present). He is also a fiction writer with five books of poetry. He won the 1993 Smithbooks/First Novel Award and the 1999 Atlantic Poetry Prize. He was appointed by the Speaker of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Commons. His job is to write poems for parliament on important occasions, sponsor poetry events and advise the Parliamentary Librarian on poetry collection and materials. His salary is $20,000 per annum with the additional sum of $13,000 for travel and administrative expenses. Steffler will be 61 on November 13, 2008 and he ‘is married to noted children’s book illustrator, Shawn Steffler and has two children, Edith and Alban’. The first Canadian Poet Laureate was George Bowering (2000-2004) succeeded by Pauline Michel (2004-2006).
That Night We Were Ravenous
John Steffler
Driving from Stephenville in the late October
dusk — the road swooping and disappearing ahead
like an owl, the hills no longer playing dead
the way they do in the daytime, but sticking their black
blurry arses up in the drizzle and shaking themselves,
heaving themselves up for another night of
leapfrog and Sumo ballet — some
trees detached themselves from the shaggy
shoulder and stepped in front of the car. I swerved
through a grove of legs startled by pavement, maybe a
hunchbacked horse with goiter, maybe a team of beavers
trying to operate stilts: it was the
landscape doing a moose, a cow
moose,
most improbable forest device. She danced
over the roof of our car in moccasins.
She had burst from the zoo of our dreams and was
there, like a yanked-out tooth the dentist
puts in your hand.
She flickered on and off.
She was strong as the bible and as full of lives.
Her eyes were like Halley's Comet, like factory whistles,
like bargain hunters, like shy kids.
No man had touched her or given her movements geometry.
She surfaced in front of us like a coelacanth, like a face
in a dark lagoon. She made us feel blessed.
She made us talk like a cage of canaries.
She reminded us. She was the ocean wearing a fur suit.
She had never eaten from a dish.
She knew nothing of corners or doorways.
She was our deaths come briefly forward to say hello.
She was completely undressed.
She was more part of the forest than any tree.
She was made of trees. The beauty of her face was bred
in the kingdom of rocks.
I had seen her long ago in the Dunlop Observatory.
She leapt from peak to peak like events in a ballad.
She was as insubstantial as smoke.
She was a mother wearing a brown sweater opening her arms.
She was a drunk logger on Yonge Street.
She was the Prime Minister. She had granted us a tiny
reserve.
She could remember a glacier where she was standing.
She was a plot of earth shaped like the island of
Newfoundland and able to fly, spring down in the middle of
cities scattering traffic, ride elevators, press pop-eyed
executives to the wall.
She was charged with the power of Churchill Falls.
She was a high explosive bomb loaded with bones and meat.
She broke the sod in our heads like a plow parting the
earth's black lips.
She pulled our zippers down.
She was a spirit.
She was Newfoundland held in a dam. If we had touched her,
she would've burst through our windshield in a wall of
blood.
That night we were ravenous. We talked, gulping, waving
our forks. We entered one another like animals entering
woods.
That night we slept deeper than ever.
Our dreams bounded after her like excited hounds.
POSTSCRIPT…
50-50 JADE?
Jade Goody courtesy Metro
Is Jade Goody dying or getting better? Well, her chances of living long enough to see her sons grow up are now 50%. It is very sad because her cervical cancer ailment was not diagnosed on time. She was in the Big Brother house twice and was recently out of Big Brother India aka Big Boss. If not for her ailment would she have gone for Big Brother Africa?
